


Fear

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys are getting ready to go out. Dom is scared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear

He really has a magnificent arse, I think, tilting my head to one side to get a better view. It is unfair, really, that someone that scrawny ended up with such a luscious backside. He's leaning over, foot on the coffee table, tying his shoelaces—I've given up trying to stop him doing that—and the way the material of his trousers stretches, outlining perfectly round cheeks, is making me hard as all get out.

Don't even think about it, my inner voice admonishes. I know I should listen to it, but I can't help myself. With an inner sigh at my own weakness, I cautiously step closer and cup his buttocks with my hands, stroking gently. He glares at me over his shoulder, eyes like ice chips, "Don't even think about it!" he hisses—yay, points to my inner voice—"We're going out," he continues, turning back to his laces, "you promised."  
  
I did promise, I acknowledge silently as I reluctantly remove my hands off him. It is a promise that I've repeatedly failed to keep over the last few weeks, my excuses becoming feebler and more risible every time, and this is my last chance. He's thrown an ultimatum at my feet: "Take me out on a public date, or it's over."

He's tired of all this secrecy. I haven't even told a soul that he has, for all intents and purposes, moved in with me. And nobody has even noticed. I mean, why would they? He has always spent more time here than at his place anyway, and we've been kind of joined at the hip since the day we met.

Two months ago things changed, though. In the middle of one of our explosive arguments about not very much at all, he suddenly grabbed the collar of my shirt, pulled me down to him and kissed me. Furiously. Hungrily. Desperately. It was like being hit on the back of the head with a four by two.

Yeah, I kissed him back. It was something I'd wanted to do for months, but hadn't had the balls. I held him to me and kissed him back, matching all of his fury, hunger and despair, releasing all my pent up frustration in that single kiss until we were both gasping for air. He grabbed my hair then and, pulling me off him none too gently, burning holes in my eyes with the intensity of his, he acknowledged, in his inimitable way, what should have been obvious to me, "I love you, you fucking moron!"

For months I'd lived in fear—that he'd laugh at me, that he'd reject me, that I would lose his friendship—and let the fear get in the way of my feelings. Hearing him say those words freed me, and the floodgates of my growing love for him opened. Grinning like a demented idiot, I told him. All of it. Told him of my love, of my fears, of my growing frustration at my own cowardice.

For two days we didn't leave this apartment; hell, we didn't even leave my bed most of the time, talking, laughing, sharing, discovering. Exploring one another's bodies with a directness and honesty that had their roots in years of friendship and trust. And at the end of those two days, we emerged as 'us'. The 'us' of best mates and lovers and partners and soulmates all rolled into one.

And yet, here we are.

I don't know what's wrong with me. It's not that I'm ashamed of being seen with him. On the contrary, I want to wrap my arms around him in the middle of the street and shout, "He's mine!" Or rather, if I'm to be truly honest, "I'm his!" But deep down I have this crippling fear that, if I acknowledge this—us—outside these four walls, he will be taken away from me. And living without him is no longer an option for me.

But, instead of explaining this foolish notion to him, I make excuses, I seduce him, I start stupid arguments... I'm surprised he's let me get away with it for so long, really, he's not exactly known for his patience and forbearance. And I know it hurts him, my refusal to touch him outside the boundaries of our friendship the few times we have been out together since that day. I can see the disappointment and pain in his eyes, and it breaks me that I'm the one putting it there.

So, tonight we're going out. On a date. And not on a quiet secretive date at a restaurant on the other end of town where nobody will recognise us. No. To our local, where our two best mates are joining us for drinks. I've been fielding their calls for weeks and, going by their mounting queries as to why we have dropped off the radar, they are probably on the brink of staging an intervention.

Laces finally sorted—I know three year olds who can do a faster and neater job of it—he straightens up and looks at me. He looks gorgeous, all in black, form-fitting shirt and hip-hugging trousers showing off his slim frame and magnificent eyes beautifully. His eyes are cautious and guarded, though, and I wince inwardly. I guess I deserve that.

Berating myself for a fool and a coward, I offer him my hand, hoping he won't smack it away, and close my eyes briefly in thanks when he takes it in his. I pull him to me and, after a split second's resistance, he sighs and allows himself to be wrapped into my arms, resting his forehead on my shoulder.

I kiss longer than usual hair, spiked up and fragrant with product, saying, "I'm sorry." With a sharp intake of breath his head snaps up, missing my nose by a hairbreadth, and he looks up at me with startled eyes. "I'm sorry," I repeat, "I've been a complete pillock."

He bites down on the smirk forming on the corners of his mouth at this pronouncement, eyes lighting up with mirth. I can see the effort it costs him to not walk through the door I just opened for him but, completely out of character, he behaves like a perfect gentleman and says nothing.

With a mental girding of loins, I release him from my arms and take his hand again, "Sit for a moment?" I ask uncertainly, "we need to talk." I can see the shutters coming down again, but he nods and follows me to the couch, sitting down next to me, his hand still in mine. Tucking a leg under me, I turn to face him, lifting our linked hands to his face to stroke my knuckles along the elegant line of his jaw.

His eyes close as he leans into the caress, but open again almost immediately and he stiffens, pulling his hand away and looking at me in reproach. "Talk," he commands, his voice uncompromising, "we're going to be late." My hand falls dejectedly back onto my lap, my eyes following it, and for a panicked moment I want to run away; avoidance is my friend.

His despondent sigh snaps me out of it, though, and I finally kick start myself into talking, my eyes still on my lonely hand, hardly pausing for breath once I get going, "I'm so sorry, love. Please don't be mad at me. I'm trying, I swear to god, I'm really trying, but I'm so scared. God I'm so scared. I love you so much, and I'm terrified that if people know about us, if it is more than just the two of us, something will go wrong and I'll lose you. I know it's stupid, but I can't help it. I'm sorry, you are my life, and I don't know what I'd do without you. I want to shout it from the rooftops, but I'm so, so, so scared. I know this is hurting you, and I promise you, I'm trying, we are going out on this date, and I won't fuck it up. I'm sorry."

By the time I get to the last 'I'm sorry' my eyes are brimming with tears, a wild panic strangling my voice, and I can't bring myself to look at him, so I just sit here picking at the skin around my nails, wishing for the earth to open and swallow me whole. I just know that he's going to leave me now. I mean, I would leave me, I'm obviously fucked in the head. Seriously, all this because I am terrified that talking about us will jinx us? Who in their sane mind would want to get involved with such a basket case?

In an agony of mortification, I pick savagely at a bit of skin until it bleeds, furiously trying to stop the tears falling, when his hand coves mine. "Don't." I look up, hope in my eyes, but that hope dies when he goes on, exasperation in his voice "You really are a pillock." My face falls, and finally the tears get free rein. I knew it, it's over.

With a long-suffering sigh, he says, "Oh, for fuck's sake, come here you bloody idiot!" and he pulls me towards him, tipping my head up with one of his fingers and wiping the runnels of tears off my cheeks with his thumb. "You. Are. A. Pillock." he says, enunciating each word distinctly, but he's smiling at me and shaking his head slightly, his eyes dancing in amusement. "Why didn't you just tell me?” he goes on, sobering up, his hand dropping to my shoulder and shaking me, "What got into you? Since when do we not talk things through?"

I look at him, and my expression tells him I'm thinking about the last time we did not talk. "Yeah, exactly, and look how well that turned out." He pauses for a moment, then goes on, a twatty expression on his face, "Well, it did turn out ok in the end, I guess, but I had to take matters into my own hands, didn't I?" I can't help the giggle that bursts out of me, and he grins at me, a bit of smirk creeping in at the success of his wisecrack.

He's not done, though. He rests his forehead on mine and, snaring my eyes in his, he says, "We'll take it slowly, yeah? But you talk to me. You don't avoid me. You don't bullshit me. You don't lie to me. Ever. Again. We clear?"

I sigh in relief, and nod fervently, which, in hindsight, is not my best move ever; it inevitably leads to a painful clash of foreheads, an affronted "OW!" from him, and an endless string of abject apologies from me. Fortunately, his off beat sense of humour kicks in, and he falls back on the couch, rolling about in a fit of giggling, one hand holding his head and the other around his middle, the mangled words 'pillock', 'clumsy' and 'idiot' cropping up at regular intervals.

I watch him with an idiotic, fatuous grin on my face, the crushing weight of worry lifted off my shoulders making me feel more than a little giddy. After a while his hilarity subsides and he flops onto his back, eyes bright, looking at me with a smile that makes my stomach flutter as he says, "Why aren't you kissing me?"

* * * * *

An hour later, late even by our appalling standard of punctuality, hair mussed up and cheeks still flushed, we finally make it to the pub, the usual jibes thrown our way by our long-suffering mates. I pull his chair back for him and sit down next to him, my arm over the back of his chair. Flushing like a teenager, I take his hand in mine and bring it to my lips, and the smile he gives me makes me feel ten feet tall.

The silence from the other side of the table is palpable, and I look at him, eyes wild with worry. He smiles at me again, squeezes my hand in reassurance and, shrugging his shoulders, mouths "I love you." That's all it takes. Squaring my shoulders, I look across the table to be met with twin smirks. Oh, god, here we go, I say to myself, and pull him to me, getting ready for the pisstaking.

They look at one another, look back at us and, with an exasperated "About fucking time!” they start a slow clapping while I look at them with my mouth hanging open and he giggles happily into my chest.

 

 


End file.
